Arms Wide Open: a Novella

by Juli Caldwell

  Arms Wide Open

  By Juli Caldwell

  Text copyright 2013 © Julianne Hiatt Caldwell

  All rights reserved

  http://julicaldwell.blogspot.com/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Juli-Caldwell-YA-Author/195258437183393

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ImJuliCaldwell

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means without prior written permission of the author, except in brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  Book cover design by Humble Nations

  http://humblenations.com/

  Table of Contents

  Friday Night

  The Eyeball Guy

  Eject! Eject!

  Rico Suavé

  Ex Factor

  Don Juan Gone Horribly Wrong

  The One

  Worth the Risk

  Unhidden Truth

  Begin Again

  Friday Night

  I’m lying on my couch, feet propped up on a furry red pillow at the other end. I have officially zoned out, eyes glazed over, while whatever show is on does its thing. I’m not really listening and actually don’t care. Thinking too much about my life is exhausting and I’m done with it.

  My roomie is on one of her ‘do something and grab life by the horns’ tangents again, and I’m ignoring her. Again. Yes, I know...the gospel according to Harlow decrees that I need a life. Yeah verily, even so, amen. Knowing it and having a desire to do something about it are two entirely different things.

  Don’t get me wrong—I adore Harlow. Best roommate ever. She pays her rent on time, doesn’t steal food from my side of the fridge, and she wipes down counters like a Zippy Maids employee of the month. If I spill a little coke on the floor, she even mops up the sticky splatters that dry everywhere and attract all the dirt I miss when I put any effort into cleaning. She graciously ignores my dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor, and she always has something fun planned. She’s the life of the party, so to speak, and I kind of won the roommate lottery when we found each other. She def drew the short stick in this living situation. Despite all the magnificence that is Harlow James (c’mon, the girl even has a rock star name), I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become her latest project. The lecture I’m hearing at the moment is my proof.

  Harlow flicks at an invisible speck of something imperfect on her perfectly manicured nails while she avoids looking at me. Ah, here we are at her avoid eye contact phase of the lecture. “...but you know, Lauren, whatever. I’m done. It’s your life; I can’t make you go out and live it. If you want to lay on the couch in your sweats, watching reality show reruns and smelling like you’re in desperate need of a shower, go for it. It doesn’t hurt me any. My nostrils aren’t a fan of your plan, but like I said. Whatevs.”

  Ouch! I watch her walk casually away, like she just innocently asked me to turn off the hall light or something. She always gets me at this last phase of the lecture: walk away and make me think. That shower jab kind of hurt, but as usual, she’s right. I hate it when she’s right. I realize she’s washing dishes piled up in the sink, and that’s the kicker. I have to get up. Those are my dishes spilling out of the sink and onto the surrounding counter. She’s going for the jugular, using my guilt against me. Girl knows how to play dirty.

  With a sigh, I shove myself up and don’t look back, knowing I probably left a permanent impression of my lazy booty imprinted on the couch. I’ve been spending a lot of time there lately, basking in the glow of finally finishing grad school...and marinating in the misery that comes with the realization that I’m now unemployed and staring down the barrel of a shotgun labeled ‘student loan payments.’

  “You don’t have to do my dishes,” I tell her, grabbing a half-scrubbed pot from her soapy hands.

  “It’s no biggie,” she says airily, trying to take it back.

  I swing it out of her reach and use my hip to bump her out of the space by the sink. “Yes, it is, lying liar pants.” I claim my spot in front of the sink full of greasy orange bubbles, the sad remains of my spaghetti from three nights ago. “So tell me more about this....this thing you want me to do.”

  Harlow dries her hands on the dish cloth hanging from the handle of our ancient oven. She turns to hop up so she’s sitting on the counter, facing me as I start scouring the pot I stole from her. “Okay, so this will take one hour, total, of your life,” she responds, sounding more excited than I’ve heard her in awhile. “You know my friend from work, Michaela?”

  “Friday night happy hour Michaela?” I ask, rinsing the pot and letting it drop to the dish drainer with a clatter. I grab my bacon pan from the pile and pull a face. I hate scrubbing bacon grease.

  “That’s the one,” Harlow nods. “She started doing this a couple of months ago and she swears by it. She’s met tons of great guys this way. She has a date every weekend and has ever since she started. She took her cousin Piper, who seriously has a crooked nose and a nasty snaggle tooth, and even she’s scoring the men these days. With a face like that...can you imagine?”

  “Less testimonial, more detail,” I say with an eye roll. I blast the hot water and let it burn my flesh raw and red while she talks and I rinse. Its exquisite pain soothes the anxiety I feel building with every word she says.

  She leans back and tilts her head up, looking thoughtful. “So we go to the coffee shop down the street and do their Friday night 5 in 5 Event. We sign up, fill out their questionnaire about stuff we like, you know, general interests, education level, what we’re looking for in a relationship, stuff like that. They match us up with five different guys to spend five minutes with at the shop tonight. If we both say we like someone, as in the guy you want to get to know likes you back, the shop gives us their numbers and a coupon for half price coffee.”

  “I see one small problem here,” I say, turning my attention to the bowls and spoons laying at the bottom of the sink now that my pans are out of the way. I frown at the mess, thinking it’s entirely possible that I eat too much cereal. Then I decide a girl can never eat too much cereal as I reach for the utensil pile and start the wipe down. “I haven’t filled out the questionnaire. I can’t go tonight.”

  Harlow grins. “I filled one out for you earlier today.”

  I drop a handful of spoons. The racket they make as they hit the stainless steel sink, the irritating clink of metal on metal, makes my head throb. “You what?”

  “I filled it out for you earlier,” Harlow repeats quickly. She knows I’ll yell at her if she gives me the chance to speak, so she keeps going. “We’ve lived together long enough that I think I know how to answer general stuff like that for you.”

  I bite my lip to keep from saying what I want to say, scowling a bit. I think for a few minutes and she hops down to sweep the already immaculate floor. Anger and anxiety are battling for control in my pounding head. My chest feels heavy and it’s hard to catch my breath to speak. “Will I still get a coupon if no one wants me?” I ask, trying to sound like I don’t care. “Pretty sure no one is gonna be asking for my number any time soon, but I should totally get a discount for trying.” Like the real world version of ‘A’ for effort.

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Lauren,” she says softly. My back is to her so I can’t see her look of sympathy, but I can hear it in her voice. This makes me even madder at the whole thing. I’ve been demoted from pet project to charity case.

  I run my fingers through my short, dyed platinum hair with a few purple streaks, currently flattened and matted against the side of my head where I’ve been laying for the last few days. Then I realize my h
ands are still greasy from pan scrubbing, and I groan before I wipe them on the seat of my baggy sweat pants. I think vaguely that when I finally get an interview I’ll celebrate with a root job, and then I think maybe I should lose the purple so I look more professional...and then I get more depressed that I have zero job prospects right now and therefore no potential employers might be turned off by the purple in my hair anyway.

  “You’re really cute,” Harlow was saying when I decide to listen to her again.

  “Cute,” I snap, grabbing more dishes and shoving them into the dishwasher. “Not beautiful.”

  “Eye of the beholder,” she returns.

  Jeez, sometimes I love that girl. She’s too nice—like the bubble gum flavor they add to liquid meds to make it go down easier.

  She takes a deep breath, as if she’s deciding whether or not to say what’s on her mind. She bites her lower lip and goes for it. “Look, Lauren, we’ve lived together for eons in roommate time, and I’ve never pried. Not about that. I’ve seen a few guys come and go but they’re never him, whoever he is. I don’t know who broke your heart, or why he did it, or even if you broke his. I just know if you don’t put yourself out there, you’ll never get over it. So it really is up to you. Are you going to let yourself be held captive by all those bad memories you’ve got locked away in there? Or should I invest in an air filtration system to mask the stench of your life rotting away on my couch?”

  Someone pass me the aloe. Pretty sure I just got burned.

  I throw the last of the dishes I just rinsed into the prehistoric dishwasher and slam it shut. I turn to face her, folding my arms. “You’re like a perfectly coifed pit bull, you know that?”

  She smiles wide. “So you’re in?”

  My disgruntled expression makes her happy dance, because she knows she got me. She wins. “Great! Go shower, because seriously, girl, you stink. Put on your little white sundress with your cropped denim jacket, and those awesome gladiator sandals...oh! And that little flower clip! I love that in your hair...after you wash it.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “We can walk down in about an hour.” Harlow bustles into the living room and grabs my blankets off the couch. She tosses them at me and grabs a can of air freshener, spraying every inch of the room. How subtle. “And make sure you shave your legs, Lauren. I know you dig the hippy dippy trippy look, and it works for you most of the time, but for the love, girl. Shave your legs. Most guys aren’t looking for a girl with a pelt.”

  “Why do I even like you?” I mutter as I stalk out. I shuffle across the parquet floor to my room, dropping my pile of blankets in front of her bedroom door. Her OCD will kick in and she’ll wash them for me. Even a little revenge can be satisfying.

  A half hour later, I’m showered and shaved, with lotion on my legs and a towel turban sliding off my head as I swipe on some deodorant. I rub on some tinted moisturizer, cream blush, and a hint of clear lip gloss. A little liquid liner and my industrial strength mascara work magic on my hazel eyes, making them pop. I may not be runway model gorgeous like tall, slender Harlow, with those gorgeous auburn waves of hers just begging to own a shampoo commercial, but my eyes are okay. Maybe even pretty...ish.

  I let the towel turban fall to the ground, and I run my fingers through my hair. I rub a little bit of mousse into it and spray it where it stands, letting the spikes form themselves and do their own thing. I pin on that little flower clip just above my ear, a white and yellow plumeria I got on a vacation to Hawaii. My first and last vacation with...him. Before I lost it all.

  I sigh. I hid out in grad school long enough. Time to start over.

  Turns out starting over isn’t so easy.

  The Eyeball Guy

  I’m sitting at a small round table, nervously picking and pulling at the card in my hand as I wait for Victim #1 to sit down across from me. At the top of the little blue card in my hand is my number: 11013. Lucky thirteen, I guess. I’m not superstitious but if I were, I would take it as a sign that tonight isn’t gonna end well and get out while I can.

  Five other numbers are written on my card—numbers that everyone in the room has assigned to them. If we like each other, we leave a little check mark by our numbers. It feels like an amped up version of the little notes we sent to the crush du jour in elementary. Do you like me? Check this box: yes, no, maybe. Even shopping for tampons on a Friday night suddenly seems more appealing than waiting for a random guy to appear and we endure five minutes of awkward silence together before scratching each other off the list and forgetting we met.

  I’m startled by someone making an abrupt appearance across from me. A guy plops down and leans forward eagerly, large brown eyes almost right in my face.

  “Whoa there, pony. Back it up!” I say, leaning back as far as I can to get a good look at him. Or, at the very least, get him out of my personal space.

  “Hi! My name is Kevin.” His hand grasps mine, and he pumps it up and down in what just might be the world’s most enthusiastic hand shake ever. Pretty sure the Guinness Book of World Records wants to record this one for posterity. His hands are a little clammy in his obvious—no, make that glaring—nervous excitement, but it’s nothing unbearable. A few beads of sweat dot his upper lip. Kevin is just as uncomfortable as I am. This makes me feel a little better, but not much, because he won’t let go of my hand.

  “Hey, Kevin. I’m Lauren Br—”

  He releases his eager grip and quickly moves one index finger to my lips so I can’t finish. He squishes my lips to the side so the tender and sensitive flesh is jammed between my front teeth. This is awkward, and uncomfortable bordering on painful. “Ah, ah, ah! We aren’t supposed to say our last names yet.”

  This is already the longest five minutes of my life.

  “Will you please move your finger?” I ask, sounding like I’m trying to speak with my face jammed against a window. My eyes are still wide in disbelief.

  He jerks his finger back and grins. “It’s nice to meet you, Lauren. I wasn’t sure about coming here but a friend of mine convinced me to give it a try. I mean, even if I don’t find the one here, I decided I can make a few friends, and you can never have too many friends in this world, don’t you think? I love making new friends, and I figure a guy can never have too many, especially female-type friends who can introduce me to more girls who might end up being the one. So, are we going to be friends, Lauren?”

  Uh...doubtful.

  I guess I hesitated too long in Kevin’s world as I pondered how to politely fudge the truth, because he cocks his head to the side and makes a tsk tsk sound. “Do you have so many friends you can’t find room in your heart for one more?”

  “Sure, Kevin, I’ll be your friend.” I only say this because I’m not entirely convinced the guy is mentally balanced, and I don’t want to be what sets off his psychotic break. Been there, done that, burned the t-shirt.

  “So tell me a little bit about you,” he says, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward with his chin resting on them. Normal guys don’t sit like this.

  Hmm...I’m more interested in asking him things. My first legitimate question would probably be along the lines of, ‘did you grow up in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?’ Sadly, I’m not sure he can handle my brand of honesty. Why didn’t I ask him something first? Twenty bones says this guy could talk the whole five minutes without coming up for air. Now I have to be the one to actually say something. I hate this.

  “I’m a student. Wait...well, not anymore. I graduated.” I sigh. “You should probably know I’m really bad at talking about myself, so just jump in with questions or tell me something about yourself,” I say, realizing I’m still holding my card. I look down at my first slot and see his number at the top, matching the sticker attached to his striped polo. He’s not a bad looking guy, with his close cropped haircut and full lips. He just happens to look like his grandma dressed him for his first day of kindergarten. I’m tempted to look under the table to see if he’s wearing white st
riped tube socks and Buster Brown shoes with those tan khakis, but I’m guessing I really don’t want to know the answer anyway.

  He leans so far forward his chin is hovering inches above the cheap linen table cloth. He reaches up and pulls back and eyebrow to point at something as he says, “Look at my eye. Do you see my eye?”

  Dim ambiance lighting in the shop make it hard to see what he wants me to see. The flickering shadows cast by the faux, battery powered candles on the table are probably supposed to make it all romantic, but it’s probably also to help us avoid getting too close a look at what we signed up for.

  I lean forward and squint. He turns his face my way so I can get the close up, and as he does I’m treated to what looks like a collection of ruptured blood vessels attached to the outside of his eyeball. The skin around it is puffy and swollen, and the white of his eye is almost solid red.

  I jerk back, hoping my lunch decides to stay put, because my stomach suddenly gurgles angrily, and what’s down there is threatening to make a break for it. “Ew! What happened?” I swallow hard and look away.

  He sits back, too, apparently pleased with himself. “I have no idea. Isn’t that so weird? I just woke up this morning and my eye was all red. I called my doctor first thing and got in to see her, and she said she’s never see anything like it without being triggered by some massive injury, like a car accident, or a sports injury without proper protective eye wear. We talked about it 45 minutes today, and she even researched it on the web while I was there. She was very thorough.” He nods in satisfaction, apparently impressed with his doctor’s mad Google skills.

  I raise my eyebrows. “And what was her diagnosis?” I don’t really want to know, but what else can I do? I’m checking my watch every ten seconds and I still have three minutes alone with Kevin. I’m not even trying to be subtle about it anymore.

  “She had no idea! She sent me home with four different kinds of eye drops that I have to take at different times of the day, and she wants me to keep a journal of all the stressors in my life. She also wants me to record how my eye reacts to the different drops. I hope it’s not too serious. I have a little too much life to live and I haven’t even met the one yet...”